Who am I? I have often considered that question and its relation to my personality and interactions with others. I could sit down for hours at a time and still, that question will leave me stumped. I don't know if I am how others perceive me or if I am how I perceive myself, cause those are two drastically different people. The problem is I have always viewed myself as a good person in the moment, but often I will reminisce and realize just how damaging my behaviors have been. I don't think there is a definitive answer to who I am because I am constantly evolving, for better or for worse. So far I'm proud of the ways I've changed, it has healed me and my relationships with people around me. The best I can describe my past identity is self-destructive. I was the person other people whispered about in the halls, scared of being caught because they were afraid of what would happen if they were. I was manipulative of people around me and toxic in a way that drew in equally as corrupt people. These people would feed into my harmful antics and I would feed into theirs. Separately we were misguided people who could have been taught better, but together we were a vicious group of people who thought we were justified and thought our actions were simply how people interacted. I firmly believe no one is born with an identity so rotten, it is constructed by the people around them, and I am no exception.
In elementary school, I was surrounded by a group of “friends” who would break out into fights almost every day, mostly verbal and hardly ever physical. The fights were because we didn’t mix well as a group. Someone’s passing joke or comment was another person's last straw.
Once during recess my “friends” and I were messing around per usual and there was some light teasing going on. I can’t recall what comment I made to one of the guys I was “friends” with, but apparently, it triggered him enough to punch me in the face. Everything had suddenly gone from light teasing to physical violence in the blink of an eye. Everyone in our circle bent over laughing as if my pain was the most hilarious joke they’d ever heard. After he hit me, a whistle was blown to signal that it was time to return to classes. He raced my other “friends” to the line where the teachers would take attendance while I was left standing there stunned and confused about why I had just been hit and why it was so amusing.
When I made my way to the line I told my teacher “He punched me in the face!” At that point, I was in tears and not trying to restrain myself anymore. All I was seeking was sympathy and validation of the fact that it wasn’t okay that someone had hit me. The teacher looked me up and down and told me without remorse, “ You probably deserved it if you were bothering him again.” and continued her way down the line. That neglect taught me two things that day that were hard for me to unlearn, violence is one big joke and those who do wrong won't be punished. This event was the kickstart for an influx of bad decisions that would later define me as a bully, my identity was not one I was proud of. The cherry on top of this trainwreck was the fact that our behavior was not supervised. Not one of the adults seemed to care and would write everything off as petty drama, and they would tell us to stop tattling. This absence of authority made it so that eventually everyone just stopped telling adults anything, even if it was important. When I had separated myself from the people who were the source of my misdeeds and surrounded myself with a group of people who were compassionate and thoughtful, my old identity slowly but surely started to disintegrate. What I was left with was no longer dangerous to others, but instead a struggle for me. My identity became one of apprehension, guilt, and anxiety. I was constantly second-guessing every action and word, fearful that an accidental twitch in my face would offend someone undeserving. I was surrounded by people who were kind, which made me feel a sense of alienation and guilt. I felt that by simply existing I would taint their goodwill and turn them into someone like me. The more time I spent stuck with these feelings, the more my social anxiety escalated to where I could do no more than smile, nod, and pray that I would survive interactions. Nothing was functioning the way it should, because I never learned how to function properly in the first place. I watched how others interacted and slowly started incorporating those tactics into my behaviors. I learned through a painstaking year of trial, how to be a better version of myself. Many times throughout that year I found myself on the verge of losing friends due to old antics, but I managed to pull myself back each time. I learned how to communicate with others so that I would never unintentionally hurt them. I accepted the task of learning the difference between teasing and bullying, and now I am all the better for it.
My identity is under constant construction from my dealings with others and the events in my life. I’m proud to finally feel some sense of control over who I am. My identity is not quite whole, I don’t own all of it, and some of it belongs to my friends and family. Part of my identity is defined by how they perceive me and the mask I put on for them. I can confidently say, that I’m proud of my growth. I look forward to discovering more about my identity every day.
This article was the second-place teen winner in the Exploring Identity writing contest, part of the 2025 Salem Reads: One Book, One Community program, which delved into the themes of Why Didn't You Tell Me? A Memoir by Carmen Rita Wong. The contest invited writers, in short story or personal essay form, to explore how identity has impacted them.